


Something Old, Something New

by MiraMira



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, F/M, Gift Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy is getting married.  To someone who isn't Pansy Parkinson.  Drastic measures must be taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Old, Something New

**Author's Note:**

> Written for obfuscate3@LJ as part of the hp_rarities fest.

Pansy Parkinson rarely opened personal correspondence any more, especially when she wasn't expecting anything from anyone. While she no longer received the sacks and sacks of invective she had in the early days following the end of the war, the occasional disguised Howler still snuck its way into her hands from time to time. So when a small envelope arrived at the breakfast table one morning with the bills and Kwikspell flyers, she nearly _Incendio_ed it without a second thought. Then she noticed the return address – and the handwriting, in a familiar dark-green ink.

After tearing it open and taking one look at the contents, she almost wished she had heeded her first instinct.

She knew she shouldn't have been surprised by what she saw, despite the excuses she'd made to shield herself from the reality of the situation. The gossip in the Daily Prophet society pages had been all too easy for her to dismiss after the assistance she'd provided Rita Skeeter during the Triwizard Tournament. The terse, infrequent responses to her correspondence and the increasingly rebuffed requests to meet in person had been troubling but understandable: someone had to save what remained of the Malfoy fortune, and Lucius had lost much of his swagger since the Dark Lord's defeat. But here, in high-quality cream parchment and tasteful calligraphy, was incontrovertible, painful proof she could no longer ignore.

Draco Malfoy was getting married. To someone else. The one certainty she'd clung to as her future restructured itself twice over was falling away, and she was supposed to stand there wearing dress robes, matching high heels, and a smile as she watched it happen.

No, there was no "supposed to" about it. She _had_ to. Because if she declined, the bride would take pitying note of her absence within earshot of everyone who might care to speculate on what pathetic alternative she had chosen instead. It was what she would have done, if there had ever been anyone she considered even remote competition. Though she had to admit, she wouldn't have thought to scrawl "and guest" on the invitation herself as though it were an afterthought. _That_ was a nice touch.

Then again, maybe not. In fact, the more Pansy thought about it, the more it seemed like a tactical error. Perhaps she did have to attend, but she didn't have to be demure or stoic about it. Leaving her untouched breakfast for the delivery owl to peck at, she gathered up the bills with the invitation and stood. She had a letter of her own to write when she arrived at work.

-

 

_Sorry, Pans. Daphne had advance notice, so she got first choice. Under other circumstances, I'd reconsider, but it wouldn't do to disappoint the sister of the bride. What about Pucey? He has a glowing write-up in the "Single Men of Quidditch" issue of Witch Weekly…or so I'm told._

_Yours,_

_Blaise_

~

 

_Dear Pansy,_

_It would be my pleasure to accompany you, but I simply can't request that much time off during a training weekend. Perhaps Flint can be of more assistance: the Falcons announced they were moving to a different schedule last week. (I'll even give you the name of my personal cosmetic mediwizard; the man's a genius with teeth.)_

_Best wishes,_

_Adrian_

~

 

_So Montrose has fallen for our little "rescheduling"? Good. Though not so much for you, I suppose. But don't worry. If you get desperate, there's always Nott._

_Sincerely,_

_Marcus "Mangler" Flint_

_P.S. Tell Pucey a cosmetic mediwizard's not going to do him much good after the next match._

~

 

_Really, Parkinson. Fond as I am of Theo, you don't think showing up with him on your arm is going to impress anyone, do you? Besides, I'm tired of lending him out for events when no one ever bothers to send me an invitation. Try Goyle. If you hurry, you might be able to beat Bulstrode to it._

_\- Z. Smith_

~

 

Pansy got as far as "Dear Greg…" before throwing her quill down in disgust. She remembered all too well the conversation sixth year when she had insisted that Draco choose someone else – Blaise, Theo, Crabbe, even (God forbid) a Gryffindor - as best man at their wedding. Her tone had been teasing, of course, but with that undercurrent of seriousness that had always crept into any discussion involving their lives together after Hogwarts. Whether or not Draco recalled the incident, he would surely remember the attitude. And Merlin only knew what conclusions poor, stupid, slavering, desperate for affection of any sort Goyle would draw.

No, this called for a complete change of strategy. The question was, what? No one would buy the "single and loving it" defense, not when Pansy had never considered herself single before in her life. Truth be told, she still couldn't entirely comprehend the change in status, which was just as well: she was a little frightened by what might happen if she allowed herself a moment to think about it. Something involving mountains of chocolate and tissues, if observation was anything to go on.

"Parkinson!" Pansy looked up to find her boss standing in front of her, hands on hips. There was no telling how long the head of marketing and public relations at Gladrags had been waiting there; with Iris "Time is Money" Timmons, even a second's delay could provoke impatience. "Those owls you've been sending out all morning had better be business-related."

"They are." Well, at least that was true for Adrian; the Magpies had a sponsorship deal. Besides, she intended to use her employee discount when she bought her robes.

Iris pursed her lips, but apparently decided that inquiring further wasn't worth the effort. Instead, she tossed a copy of the Daily Prophet society pages onto Pansy's desk. "Look through this for prospective contacts. And give me a list for approval before you write any more letters," she added with emphasis before walking off.

Someone across the room – it sounded like Parvati Patil – giggled. Pansy glared in the offender's general direction long enough to restore silence, then picked up the newspaper.

"**GRYFFINDOR'S GOLDEN COUPLE SPLITSVILLE – FOR GOOD?!**" the headline blared at her. In the equally prominent photo below it, a bushy-haired, unfashionable young woman hurled silent invective at her tall, freckled companion, his mouth open as though preparing to put in a few choice words of his own as soon as an opportunity presented itself – which, knowing the witch in question, Pansy suspected wouldn't be any time soon. She let out an automatic snort.

As though suddenly aware of her presence, the man in the photograph looked up and turned his glower on her for a moment before returning his attention to the argument in progress.

Pansy blinked, inexplicably caught off guard. Ludicrous, of course, to think that he'd been about to say something to her. Photographs weren't like portraits. He'd noticed an audience, that was all.

Nonetheless, she found herself hoping he'd do it again.

So preoccupied was she with combating this silliness that when an even more ridiculous notion popped into her head, she didn't notice until it had taken root in the portion of her brain otherwise reserved for logical thinking. Wheels turning in spite of herself, she studied the picture again.

Yes, he was poor, and loud, and…_red_. But apart from the obvious, why not? Loath though she was to admit it, he was more intelligent than Goyle. And a Pureblood. And apparently single.

And if she could pull it off, there was no way in hell Draco would be able to ignore her.

Pansy separated the page from the rest of the paper and folded it, taking care not to crease it in the wrong places, before setting it aside and turning to the smaller news items. She needed to focus if she wanted to take her full lunch hour.

-

 

"Welcome to Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes." The twin behind the counter (even now that there was only one to keep track of, she couldn't be bothered to remember either of their names) slowly looked up from a ledger as Pansy approached, narrowly avoiding a small swarm of brightly colored objects buzzing about the shop ceiling. "How can I help…" The spiel trailed off and his eyes narrowed. It seemed the recognition problems were all on her end. _"You."_

Pansy stood firm. "I understand your brother works here."

The elder Weasley scowled. "Ron's not interested in any company right now, let alone the cowardly, traitorous kind."

Treachery was in the eye of the beholder, Pansy thought, but the confirmation that there was trouble in paradise kept her temper in check. "Why don't you let him be the judge of that?"

Fenton or Geoff or whatever his name was tried to stare her down for a few seconds longer before yielding. "Fine. But if this ends in hexings, I'm fully prepared to testify before the Wizengamot that he was provoked." He cupped a hand to his mouth and called toward the back of the store. "Oi! Ron! Someone here to see you!"

A long pause preceded the slightly croaky reply. "Who?"

"Trust me, mate, not who you're thinking," said Gabriel, with a quick glare at Pansy. "But you'd better come out all the same."

An even longer pause ensued. Finally, Ron Weasley came trudging out of the back room, looking as though he had seen neither sun nor shower for some time and had no particular interest in either. Pansy felt the peculiar flutter from earlier that morning return as he locked eyes with her and came to a standstill. This time, though, it was his turn to blink, before rounding on his brother. "What kind of prank is this?"

"No prank," said Pansy, without giving Francis a chance to respond. "I'm here to invite you to a wedding."

After the longest silence yet, broken only by the buzzing things making a second pass overhead, Weasley let out a strangled noise. Pansy was about to ask if he'd inhaled one of the objects until he slapped his brother on the back and she recognized it as laughter. "Okay, I have to admit, that's a good one."

Gordon shook his head. "I swear on Dumbledore's grave, I had nothing to do with this."

Weasley stopped laughing. "So what is _she_ doing here?"

"I just told you," Pansy reminded him, irritated. Maybe she'd been too hasty in declaring him smarter than Goyle.

Weasley slowly turned to look back at her. A shiver ran through her again: one of fear, this time. "You are Pansy Parkinson, right? The girl who wanted to hand my best friend over to the Dark Lord?"

"I was a frightened child trying to prevent the needless slaughter of _my_ friends," she objected, realizing from his set jaw that it wouldn't do her any good even as she said it. "But if you prefer to think of it that way, then yes."

"Then the only place I'd be willing to go with you is Hell." He maintained eye contact long enough to ensure the message sank in. Then his strength seemed to desert him, and he slumped as he looked away, muttering. "Of course, I've been there for the past couple of days, so I guess I should've expected something like this."

Frank (she was getting closer; she could feel it) came out from behind the counter and threw a comforting arm around his brother's shoulders. "You'll work things out. You two always do."

"Except it's been the same damn argument for months now." Weasley pursed his lips and raised his voice an octave in an imitation that was so spot-on in its shrillness, Pansy had to fight to keep from laughing; reminding anyone of her presence didn't seem wise at the moment. "'Honestly, Ron, if you want a position with the Aurors that badly, either take your exams or swallow your pride and ask Harry to put in a good word for you. I barely have any pull in my own department, and I wouldn't just give you the job even if I did, so stop moping and taking it out on me and _do_ something about it!'"

Pansy could tell from the older Weasley's expression that he thought Granger had a point, but didn't want to come out and say it. "Maybe if you take some steps, she'll—"

"_What_ steps?" Weasley demanded, as his brother winced. "Unlike some people, I can't remember everything I've ever read or heard, let alone all the useless bits I'd need to pass my NEWTs. And nobody will take me seriously if I get in because I'm Harry's friend. They _shouldn't_. That leaves bringing them a lead on some Dark activity, and I don't think Mum wants me poking about in abandoned alleyways, do you, George?"

"That's it!" Pansy exclaimed.

Two sets of blue eyes blinked, then fixed on her, clearly annoyed. "Yes?" the newly-identified twin asked in a clipped voice.

A quick mental debate between denying she had said anything and haughty refusal to explain herself ensued. It ended when a third idea entered the conversation and instantly silenced all other possibilities. "George," she repeated slowly, giving the plan time to cohere, "since your brother has expressed his disinterest in speaking with me, inform him that I have a solution to his problem."

"Spit it out, Parkinson," Weasley told her, before George could voice the objection he was clearly planning.

Smiling in triumph might have been premature, but she did it anyway. "Come with me to Draco's wedding."

Weasley gaped, then laughed, this time without mirth. "And they say Gryffindors are stubborn. I told you..." He faltered as some realization sparked across his features. "Wait. _Malfoy's_ getting married?"

"That's right."

"And…you're not…?"

"I don't suppose you remember Daphne Greengrass's sister Astoria?" Pansy's instincts told her not to conceal the tremble in her voice underneath the chattiness. Which was fortunate, since she wasn't sure she would have been able to do it anyway. "She was two years below us. Petite, blonde…pretty, if you like that sort of thing."

His expression flickered again. She couldn't place the emotion this time, but it was decidedly less hostile: enough so that he perched on the desk and gave her his full attention. "I'm listening."

"Ron…" George warned, clearly discomfited by this turn of events.

Pansy ignored him. "I don't need to tell you the sort of company Draco keeps. Obviously, he isn't as…close to certain individuals as he once was, but there will still be a number of people who held—for your sake, let's call them questionable loyalties during the war. They will be there planning to enjoy themselves. To relax. And after a few tumblers of Old Ogden's, if one of them should let something slip…"

Weasley's face remained unreadable, but his eyes sparkled. "When is it?"

"Sunday the 18th."

His eyebrows went up. "That's less than a month from now."

"The bride wants to finish her NEWTs celebrating, I suppose," Pansy drawled. She was still trying not to think about other possible explanations for the timing.

Weasley pondered. The sparkle abruptly dimmed, and was replaced by a look of horror. "You're not expecting me to pretend that we're…" He went through a series of elaborate and surprisingly expressive hand gestures.

"I'm not asking you to snuggle," she retorted, feeling oddly defensive. "But it would help put others at ease if we at least appeared to be on friendly terms."

She was fully prepared for some objection, but to her great surprise, he went back to pondering. After a much longer period of time, he took on a decisive expression and spoke. "Should I pick you up or meet you there?"

"Okay, that's it." George interposed himself between the two of them, front side facing Pansy. "I don't know what you cast on him or when, but take it off and get out of here."

"Relax, mate." It was Weasley's turn to provide a reassuring shoulder pat. "Like I said, I'm already in Hell. Might as well try negotiating with the natives."

Rather an odd definition of friendly terms, Pansy thought, unless one had sat in on a Quidditch practice or watched Draco attempt to tutor Crabbe and Goyle. But she had what she wanted, and her lunch hour was almost up. Time to make her exit. "I'll owl you with the details." As she reached the door, one important point occurred to her, and she turned back. "Oh, and do make sure you have appropriate dress robes."

She wondered how long they scowled after her as the door swung shut.

-

 

Pansy applied the finishing touches to her makeup, then checked the clock again, with more anxiety than she cared to admit. Part of her wondered if it was really a good idea for Weasley to know where she lived. What if a mob of Gryffindors still seeking vengeance on behalf of the Boy Who Hadn't Even Been Hurt (At Least Not by Her) descended upon her one night?

Of course, the more likely possibility was that he wouldn't show up at all, and she would be damned if she let anyone see her standing outside the chapel waiting for an escort who never came.

A pounding at the door sent this vision into not-so-peaceful oblivion. "Parkinson! You ready?"

"Coming!" she called, pulling on her shoes and trying to tamp down the replacement worry that she might open the door to find him modeling the walking carpet from the Yule Ball again.

He wasn't. In fact, she noted with surprise, Weasley cleaned up well. Black robes might have looked too stark against his flaming hair, but someone – probably his sister, or the brother who worked at the Ministry – had thought to buy him a set with subtle metallic blue threads woven in to bring out his eyes. As he gave her his own once-over, she silently congratulated herself for having the foresight to choose the indigo robes.

Then his eyes came to rest a bit too long on her cleavage, and the feeling of satisfaction passed. She cleared her throat. He gave a guilty start, shifting his attention to the living area behind her. "Nice place."

"It serves." Sweeping past him, she closed the door behind her before he could start a genuine inspection and raised her wand. "Count of three?"

"You don't want to Side-Along?"

She lowered the wand, and raised an eyebrow in its place. "I didn't think you'd want more contact than necessary."

"I don't." As his brain caught up with his mouth, he flushed, tone turning defensive as he backtracked. "I mean, you're the one who said we should make it look like we don't hate each other. And Mum would kill me if she knew I hadn't offered. Not that she knows about this," he clarified quickly, when Pansy's eyebrow went up further, "and I'm not going to tell her, but she would if she did."

"Well, we wouldn't want to make your mother angry." Which was true enough, though Pansy couldn't say she'd seen much evidence of any of Mrs. Weasley's other etiquette lessons in her offspring's comportment. "Though if you Splinch so much as a thread of this dress, I will make you sorry she ever met your father."

Weasley took her outstretched arm gingerly. She was not encouraged to feel the speed with which his pulse beat as he spoke the spell. The moment she heard a _pop_ and saw the church looming before them like an oversize, angular wedding cake, she let go and patted her hairdo to make sure it was still in place.

"You look fine," Weasley told her, able to roll his eyes now that the danger had passed. "Let's get this over with."

They walked up the staircase side-by-side. Cygnus Warrington, who'd apparently gotten stuck with usher duty, stood at the top, scanning his clipboard diffidently as they approached. "May I see your—" At that point, he took the trouble to look up and trailed off, gaping.

"Groom's side," Pansy informed him calmly.

Warrington pointed a shaky finger to the right.

"Thank you," she said, taking a program from the basket beside him, and sailed onward. Or would have, if Weasley hadn't been half a step behind her and slow to open the door. So much for chivalry.

She would have been more gratified by the shocked stares and murmurs that greeted their entrance to the chapel if she hadn't been preoccupied with critiquing her surroundings. Everything looked wrong: the colors, the flowers, the wall hangings. Pansy would have found a way to incorporate green and silver, for Draco's sake, but never in so blatant a fashion. That was what he got for marrying a girl whose idea of a refined dinner party was still the end of term feast at Hogwarts, she supposed.

"Hey." Weasley had been tapping her on the shoulder for some time, she realized. "I found us some seats toward the back."

Now she was paying attention. "The back? I'm not sitting in the back."

"Well, we can't sit up front. That's for family." He considered this for a second. "Or do you qualify?"

She had to pause over this as well, though not for the same reasons. "No, I suppose not." She felt very tired, suddenly. "Show me the ones you found."

Despite the fact he was supposed to be leading, this time it took him a full two steps to catch up. Somehow, though, she didn't feel as inclined to blame him.

Weasley hadn't been kidding, she discovered when they retraced her steps to the third pew from the door. "Is this the best you can do?"

"Unless you want to sit next to the Macmillans and their six-month old. And they're on the bride's side, anyway."

She shuddered and gestured to the pew. "After you."

"Me?"

Pansy sighed. "This isn't something else your mother taught you, is it? Ladies first and whatnot?"

"No, I don't like sitting in the aisle. Besides, from back here, it might be the only chance you get to really see—"

"No," she cut him off sharply, before trying again. "No, thank you. Just…take the aisle. Please."

She tried to move in, but Weasley blocked her way and stood there, examining her. "This is ridiculous," he said, just as she had reached her limit and was about to shove him aside. "The love of your life is getting married, and you're arguing about pew positions?"

Unable to help herself, she stepped back. "What makes you think I have any feelings left for Malfoy?"

He gave her a penetrating look. "Someone—" The slight catch in his voice made it clear who. "—once accused me of having the emotional range of a teaspoon, but I'm familiar enough with broken hearts now to know one when I see it. And even if I couldn't, you two were together from the time you hit puberty. There must have been _something_ stronger than his Galleons there for you to put up with his winning personality that long."

Not rising to the insult proved almost as aggravating as the Macmillans' infant, who had woken up and was beginning to squawk. "Fine, supposing I do. Did. What do you expect me to do about it? Barge into the groom's quarters, snog him senseless, and demand that he elope with me instead?"

"Yes!" Several people in the pew in front of them turned to stare. He waited until they lost interest, then lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. "I mean, at least it'd be something!"

She snorted. "Typical Gryffindor. Charge to the rescue first, think later." Her tone grew even snider. "Although I don't see _you_ galloping off on your white Abraxan to patch things up with Granger."

"Don't try and turn this around on me." The forcefulness of his objection startled her far less than the objection itself; she hadn't expected distraction would take much effort. "Look, Parkinson. You have nothing to lose here—"

"—Other than my dignity—"

"—Which may end up as badly shredded as that program you're clutching anyway if you try and keep a stiff upper lip for the next three hours."

"Five." Pansy let the remnants of the program fall from her hand and discreetly swept the pieces under the pew with her foot.

Weasley went a little green at the correction, but pressed on. "The point is, even _I_ think this is wrong, and the only thing I've ever wanted to see Malfoy kiss is a Dementor. And much as I might dislike you for it, I know you can speak up when things aren't going your way. Why not now?"

She balled a tenacious scrap of the program that had clung to her robes between her fingers while she avoided looking at Weasley. "Even if I thought the idea had merit, I wouldn't know where to look for him. And I very much doubt anyone will tell me."

"Around the right hand corridor, up the stairs, one of the doors on the left."

That startled her into staring. "How do you know that?"

There was a very long pause. "Hermione and I took the tour a few months ago."

"Oh." Which said it all, really, only the slump of his shoulders didn't make it seem enough. "I'm s—"

"Don't." The pause was shorter this time. "Go on, Parkinson. At least one of us ought to be happy. Merlin knows why I think it should be you, but go and find him before I come to my senses."

The Macmillans' baby let out a full-throated wail. Every eye in the chapel except Weasley's turned in its direction. Pansy didn't wait for the diversion to pass. She picked up her skirts and ran.

-

 

If only Weasley had bothered to pick up a map, Pansy thought, studying the long row of doorways that stretched down the hall before her. There wasn't time to try each of them in turn. And what if Astoria turned out to be behind one of them?

A low murmuring nearby caught her attention. She made her way over, ears perked. She couldn't identify any of the words or voices, but their owners were distinctly male. That was encouragement enough for Pansy. Unsurprised to find the door locked when she tried the handle, she cast _Alohomora_ and pulled again.

Rows of spare robes fluttered out to meet her, as did the splayed hand of someone inside attempting to keep their balance. She quickly identified it as belonging to Blaise Zabini, whose other arm remained draped around a sweaty, half-dressed Theodore Nott. Nott's arm, in turn, encircled his equally disheveled partner, Zacharias Smith.

Except for Theo, who remained in his lustful stupor, they regarded each other in silence: Pansy stunned, Blaise agitated and clearly eager to escape, Smith defiant and perhaps just the slightest bit smug (but then, when wasn't he?). Blaise spoke first. "Don't tell Daphne."

"I won't," Pansy said, with a smile not intended to convey reassurance. "On one condition."

-

 

The next door proved far more difficult for Pansy to open, largely because she could not bring herself to make the attempt. Not that she distrusted Blaise or feared a repeat of the previous try: now that she was here, she didn't know what to do next. Gryffindor-inspired though she might be at present, Pansy was still a Slytherin, and a Slytherin required a plan to act. Unfortunately, the only one that came to mind readily was running, which, while sensible, struck her as a waste of a perfectly good blackmail chip. She also didn't relish the thought of returning to Weasley in defeat: not because she feared his teasing, oddly, but his disappointment.

Under the circumstances, perhaps she could consider "winging it" a plan. She unlocked the door and turned the handle.

Draco, looking paler and more sombre than usual in his black robes, was pacing the room, muttering something that sounded like vows under his breath. Spotting her, he came to an abrupt stop. "Pansy? What—"

She wasn't sure how she crossed the room so quickly: only that she had done it and now she was kissing him, hands caressing his face and hair, tongue seeking an opening between his teeth. His lips pressed back, his hands lifted to her waist, and for one wild, wonderful second, she allowed herself to believe that it might work.

Then he extended his fingers and shoved.

"—the _hell?!_" he sputtered once she'd disengaged. "First I hear rumors from the ushers that you've brought Potter's sidekick, of all people, and now _this?_ Tell me, were you hit on the head with a Bludger recently?"

No, the pain was much lower and harder to endure. She didn't tell him that, though. All she could manage to say, in a cracked, feeble whisper she barely recognized as her own, was, "When?"

He'd turned his focus to the mirror while she was recovering. With some small measure of bitter amusement, she noted that his primary concern appeared to be fixing his hair. "You tell me."

"No, when did this all happen? I thought we were…" As much as she wanted it to be, "happy" wasn't the right word. She tried again. "You left me dangling for over two years. Astoria's barely out of school. Why the rush?" Anger and curiosity overcame her earlier desire not to speculate. "She's not pregnant, is she?"

Draco looked horrified by the idea: enough to drop his guard and look up at her reflection. "Sweet Salazar, no. The Greengrasses are very diligent in their chaperone duties." Having heard Daphne's tales of her older sister Queenie's exploits, Pansy was inclined to doubt this, but refrained from commenting. "Patience is simply not one of Astoria's virtues."

"It's not one of mine, either."

"I know." Finally he had the good grace to face her, and the chastened little boy she saw made her heart twinge again. "Honest to God, Pansy, I never thought you'd wait so long. Every time I sent your owl away empty-beaked while I tried to think of some way to explain, I expected it to come back carrying a Howler. I was so sure that next time would be the time you gave up on me that I kept putting it off until it was too late."

He always had been reluctant to act when the odds of coming out of a confrontation on top were not overwhelmingly in his favor: a trait she'd exploited to her advantage in the past. "Is it?"

"Mother's escorting me down the aisle in…" He checked the clock on the wall, eyes widening a bit as he saw which stage of the preparation process the hand pointed nearest. "Less than five minutes. What do you think?"

"You haven't spoken any vows yet." Her hand reached out toward his of its own accord, but she didn't dare come too close again. "Draco, I don't know what went wrong, but can't we try and fix it? You don't even have to break the engagement right now. Just tell her you need more time. After all our plans…"

"They were plans for a different world, petal." How long had it been since she'd heard that nickname from him? Sixth year? Seventh? But he didn't look or sound boyish any more as he said it. "One where our last names still carried respect. Where public opinion thought of us as something other than a cowardly opportunist and the Dark Lord's youngest loyal follower."

"I did it for _you!_" she howled, too angry—or grieved—at hearing the old excuse from his lips to cry. "Why does nobody understand? I didn't give a damn about the Dark Lord, or Potter, or any of it! I just wanted for it to end, and for you to be safe!"

"I know." He brought his hand over to meet hers, stopping just short of contact. "I've always known, and I've done my best to defend you. But I have to defend my family first, against those who consider us traitors and those who think we had some master strategy all along."

She took a shuddering breath to collect herself. "Is that the only reason, then? To preserve your reputation?"

"Please. You've met my parents. I'm not one to settle for the prospect of a loveless marriage. Astoria is well-spoken, intelligent, graceful, skilled with financial management, and discreet." He listed these qualities without judgment or notable approval, breaking into a smile only at his last point. "And she makes the best Cauldron Cakes I've ever tasted."

"You haven't actually said you love her."

"I think I can."

She swallowed. "And me?"

"I _know_ you, Pansy. Better than I know myself, I think, sometimes." The intensity of his tone and gaze was almost harder to bear than his touch would have been. "If you'd gotten them to hand over Potter, you'd have been the hero, at least to those whose opinions mattered, and I'd have been in disgrace. You would have seen that things couldn't be the way we wanted them to, that we couldn't have a life together _and_ the glory we both desired. You would have needed to choose. And you would have done what you had to do."

Yes, she thought. She would have, and to hell with glory. Which only went to show that he didn't know her in the slightest, and she understood him all too well.

There might be tears later, she suspected. But for now, all she felt was a quiet emptiness, as though a great dark, roaring waterfall that had been pouring into her had suddenly been cut off at the source. That was why they called it closure, she supposed.

Just to be on the safe side, she made sure the tremors were gone from her voice before speaking. "Then I suppose there's nothing more to say, except that I hope you two will be very happy."

"That's it?" Draco blinked. "No declarations of vengeance? No curses upon me and my heirs?"

She couldn't resist smirking. "Don't be silly. I'm much too fond of your mother to deprive her of healthy grandchildren." Her expression softened. "And you do deserve to be happy. We all do. We suffered enough for it."

"Some of us more than others." She couldn't tell from his expression who he had in mind. "Good luck, Pansy."

"You, too." She dropped a chaste kiss on his cheek, double-checked to make sure she hadn't left any lipstick marks, and took her leave.

There might have been a flicker of hesitation in his expression as she passed him, but she didn't bother turning back to confirm.

-

 

Her escort looked up as Pansy slid back into the pew beside him. "Did you…?"

"Yes."

The Wedding March began to play. He lowered his voice accordingly. "And he's still going to…?"

"Yes."

He drooped a little. "I'm sorry I couldn't help."

"Don't be. You did. More than you know." Then, because she wanted to be sure he understood even if she couldn't put it into words, she touched him on the shoulder and waited for him to turn so she could look him in the eye. "Thank you, Ron."

She felt his muscles stiffen reflexively and read his startled bewilderment. As she watched, the tension transformed to wonder, then pleasure, and he gave a smile she couldn't help returning. "You're welcome, Pansy."

-

 

Wishing her wand would work just long enough to cast _Evanesco_, Pansy took one last sip of tea and hid the remainder of her dessert under the upturned cup. If Astoria was in any way responsible for those rocks masquerading as Cauldron Cakes, Draco was more besotted than he knew.

She'd been startled and flattered in spite of herself to discover that she had been seated with Draco's relatives, albeit the elderly spinster great-aunts and cousins, a number of whom seemed to think the groom was Lucius. Thankfully, the poor dears were beginning to toddle off to bed, though this left her in even more dire need of conversational distraction. She scanned the room in search of some.

Half of the girls she knew had clustered around Tracy and her now-sleeping baby, while the other half and their partners had joined Draco and Astoria on the dance floor. Among these were Blaise and Daphne. The former caught her glance and smiled nervously. She couldn't resist a predatory wave and grin in return.

Ron…Ron…ah, there he was, over by the bar, nursing a drink he seemed to be enjoying every bit as much as she was her cake.

Maybe it was the drop or three of brandy one of the feistier great-aunts had obligingly slipped her earlier, or she was still possessed by a certain spirit of recklessness. Whatever it was, she stood and crossed the room until she was standing beside him. "Dance with me."

Startled, Ron swallowed hard and coughed. "What?"

"You heard me."

"All right, then, why?" He set the drink down.

"You'll never spot anything if you don't circulate."

He made a noise somewhere between a disdainful laugh and a sigh. "I'm not going to spot anything here."

"Then you might as well enjoy yourself."

She waited for a retort along the lines of "By dancing with you?" It didn't come. Instead, he stood and held out his hand to her with a slight bow. Curtseying in return, Pansy took it and let him lead her out to join the other waltzing couples.

As he rested one hand on her waist, it occurred to her that she hadn't seen him dance the time he'd worn the walking carpet. Much like the clothing situation, though, she soon realized she had nothing to worry about. "When did you take lessons?"

"Lessons?" He snorted as he twirled her. "This is all Quidditch reflexes. A good Keeper anticipates his opponent's movements and adjusts for them."

"Really?" She couldn't help giggling. "Tell me, what play involves counting 'one-two-three' under your breath?"

Ron stumbled, then recovered with a small scowl. "All right, so George gave me a few pointers."

"He's a very good teacher." As he pulled her in again, she twisted slightly, bringing her torso closer to his. "Of course, I suppose it helps to have a competent student."

The counting skipped a beat again as Ron drew in his breath sharply. His stiffness also seemed to have returned—though this time, she considered it a compliment in certain respects. "I'll tell him you said so."

Pansy was almost certain the brandy was at work as her laughter turned husky, but found she didn't care. "Has he taught you any other tricks?"

"Perhaps." With difficulty, his eyes shifted from her to some other point. She didn't need to look to guess where the newlyweds were dancing at this moment. "But I don't think I should be showing you any of them just yet."

"Fair enough." She took another spin. "The night is still young."

She didn't know what was going to happen next: whether he'd escort her to her door with a promise to Floo for another evening of gentlemanly behavior and never follow through, or whether they'd be dragging each other to the closet upstairs after another drink. Maybe Granger would see the inevitable photos and turn up on his doorstep in three days' time, declaring she'd made a mistake. Maybe Draco would stop by her flat in a few months or weeks or years, announcing his separation or simply his dissatisfaction. Or maybe she would move into the Weasley hovel with her new husband, raise a litter of red-haired spawn, and live deliriously, blissfully happily ever after: a possibility which seemed less and less farfetched the longer she danced.

Pansy looked out from over Ron's shoulder at the bride and groom, and smiled a last goodbye to the life she had thought she wanted. For the first time in her life, the future was completely undefined—and it felt better than she had ever dreamed. She closed her eyes and settled in.


End file.
